Carson Daly and Earl Hickey are lying pieces crap

The Mean Green Machine and I were out for a little Friday afternoon toodle around the Valley. I had to pick up Tori from the lawn mower (un)warranty service center (I'd discuss this more but I'm afraid the rest of this post would be a long, rushing stream of curse words. They'd pour out of me like Minute Maid-orange piss after a long night hammering back cold ones, so I'll spare y'all of that), and I felt it was time for a little Mean Green Machine and me time.

I scoot her onto the freeway and get the hamsters pushing - and with the AC blasting (because Arizona sits in the ass crack of the sun) that ain't easy to do - until I hit cruising speed. However, I must wait to hit hyperdrive as a semi-truck sits just off my right also wanting squeeze onto 101.

Allow me to digress a bit because I feel I need to explain something before I forge ahead with today's escapade. We're regular viewers of "My Name is Earl." In the pilot episode Earl is laid up in a hospital bed after getting smacked in the tookus by a granny wielding a land yacht (see Lincoln Continental). And he was only made into a human pancake because he hit it big on a lottery ticket. He runs out into the middle of the road, celebrating, and WHAMMO! they're picking little bits of Earl out of the old ladies' grill (that's a typical occurence out here with all the blue hair drivers - but digress even further). While in the hospital room, Earl spots queer-bait Carson Daly on the tube spouting off about that bitch Karma. Earl, believing that would change his luck, creates a list of all the bad things he's done in life and vows to right all the wrongs he did in life. To make a long story short, Earl is now humping Karma like she's a Philipino hooker and he's a sailor on leave.

So, I'm sidled up to this semi on the on ramp. Now I don't know if this truck was hauling illegals, toxic waste, weapons of mass destruction, Antrax or honey bees juiced up with microbial pollen designed to kill every American's sinuses (think X-Files movie folks), all I knew was I had two choices: Flash my lights (the thought of flashing other things crossed my mind) and let the big guy know he has room to scooch on over, or hope the hamsters under my hood are juiced up enough to avoid being munched into bits of scrap metal and bloody bits. I chose the latter and received some blinking taillights as a thank you for letting the big guy by. And then, to punctuate his thanks, he gave me a friendly wave.

That's right, I'm a friend to the trucker. I know all the words to Alabama's "Roll on (18-wheeler)," and I've watched Smoky and the Bandit somewhere in the neighborhood of 330 times. Plus, I recognize those rigs are roughly five times bigger than I am, and like I said I have an aversion to becoming scrap-metal-and-bloody-pulp road pizza.

Not too mention, like Carson and Earl said in my head, it was good Karma.

I bee-bop on down the highway, singing along to a School of Fish song on the ol' iPod, enjoying the ride out to New Mexico (in my world anything east of Interstate 17 out here is New Mexico).

It came at me out of nowhere and smacked my windshield with such force I probably should be dead now. A rock - I swear it was the size of Yosemite's El Capitan, or if anything Lilly Rock in Idyllwild - jumped and pitted my windshield like the Mean Green Machine was the moon and the rock was an asteroid.

But that dirty whore, Karma, is one funny lady. In the matter of five minutes, I went from coaxing her into bed to kicking her out of bed for eating crackers. How do I know Karma was shoving a red, hot poker up my pooper? I looked up from my cratered windshield and saw a street cleaner. I knew it was a street cleaner because 1) it had bristle brush on its ass end, and 2) the back read "Dirt Witch." Your honor, I submit to the jury this "Dirt Bitch" - oh, I'm sorry your honor - "Dirt Witch" chucked a hunk of granite the size of a mastadon with extreme malice. Therefore, your honor, I would like you to rule against Karma and tell that cosmic wench she's nothing but a glorified golden rule and should be stricken with some incurable malady. I vote for herpes with a side of yeast infection.

It's your move now, Karma, give me your best shot.

If you don't see a post next week, you'll know Karma is laughing her ass off.